


The Slow Way

by thirtyspells (weatherveyn)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherveyn/pseuds/thirtyspells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam returns from a hunt injured. Gabriel takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Slow Way

It’s dark and completely silent when Gabriel appears in front of the motel, idly glancing around for the Impala. He has his hands jammed into his pockets, hair ruffled from the transatlantic flight, and when he sighs in annoyance the air fogs with his breath. Rather than snapping himself into Sam’s – empty – room, he turns on his heel and pops the lock open with a tiny spark of Grace, twisting the handle easily and stepping inside.

The room’s just as bleak and bare as every other room the Winchesters have ever stayed in, full of the stale smell of other people overlaid with the cloying scent of cleaning products and the incessant buzz of the ancient mini-fridge struggling on. The wallpaper looks faded and tired, and Gabriel’s pretty sure that at this point the carpet’s one professional clean away from total destruction.

He hates it just like he’s hated every other room Sam’s stayed in since he started visiting regularly. 

Gabriel glares at the bed until it transforms itself from a narrow double into a more acceptable queen, adding hunter green coverlets as an afterthought, thinking Sam might appreciate the joke, and shuts the door behind him with a creak and a sharp click. He toes off his boots and socks and kicks them in random directions, hearing them thud against the walls and floor, before flopping back on the bed with a dramatic huff.

He’s itching to snap his fingers and change the bed to a king, to make the carpet plush and soft enough to sleep on, transform the TV into one of those enormous flat screens Sam’s never used before, paint the walls something dark and appealing and cover the tiny kitchenette with a mix of his and Sam’s favourite foods – but he doesn’t, because he knows it will only make Sam uncomfortable.

It’s frustrating, not being able to do these things, but it’s a small price to pay for having Sam in – well, maybe not  _his_  bed, but  _a_  bed, in any case.

He’s not waiting long before he hears the now-familiar purr of the Impala’s engine and then the heavy sound of a car door shutting, and he sits up in anticipation. A wicked smile curls across his mouth as he leans back on his elbows and hitches his legs apart in an artfully casual way, unbuttoning his shirt and banishing his jacket across the room with a thought. 

When Sam opens the door and stumbles in, Gabriel sits up straight, all traces of playfulness gone. The hunter is holding the door key with one shaking hand and his side with the other, hunched awkwardly in a way Gabriel’s come to recognise as trying to minimise pain. He tenses briefly when he realises he’s not alone in the room, but relaxes almost immediately upon seeing Gabriel and shuffles further into the room.

“Hell, kiddo, I leave you alone for one hunt and you come home beat to hell,” Gabriel says, with more concern than he meant to. “I thought this was a couple of hedgewitches playin’ with black magic?”

“So did I,” Sam grunts, gingerly shrugging off his jacket to reveal a half-dried bloodstain that covers almost half his chest. “But apparently they got in bed with demons sometime between us hearing about it and us turning up to talk to them about why messing with this stuff isn’t a good idea.”

“And a demon managed to get the drop on you?” Gabriel asks sceptically, hopping off the bed and padding across the room to examine Sam more closely. “Are you gettin’ slow in your old age, Sammy?”

“Shut up, Gabriel. I’m not in the mood – and, demon _s_ , plural.”

Sam hisses in pain when Gabriel touches his side and tries to struggle out of his bloodied shirt, unable to lift his arm properly due to the injury. It takes all of ten seconds for Gabriel to lose patience and grab two handfuls of the material, tearing it straight from hem to collar and ignoring Sam’s protests – he can always get more shirts.

Under the blood, Sam’s side is a mess of purples and blues with a single – thankfully shallow – slice running diagonally down his ribs, towards his back. Gabriel lets out an impressed whistle, eyebrows shooting up as he tamps down his seething rage by reminding himself that the Winchesters have already killed the little fuckers responsible and it’s not worth his time to haul them back just to do it again. Quelling his frustration is more difficult, though, because it stems from the desire to heal Sam with a thought and his inability to do so.

“On the bed,” Gabriel instructs.

“What?” Sam asks, and Gabriel can feel him staring as he crosses to the bathroom. “Gabriel, I’m really not–”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re irresistible covered in blood and sweat and bruises, Sam. Just sit on the damn bed and wait, Winchester.”

It says something about how tired and sore Sam is that he obeys without so much as a bitchface. Gabriel shuts the bathroom door and snarls low and furious before taking a breath and snapping his fingers. The familiar feeling of Grace spooling out of him and stretching out to pull a plastic tub and a cloth to him as easy as breathing settles him slightly, makes him feel less useless. He fills the small tub with water and dips his fingers in, purifying it and warming it in one.

He hates this. Hates that he can’t just press his palm to Sam’s side and take away the pain, heal the bruises and the cuts and take the scars too, if Sam would let him. He hates that the touch of his Grace sends Sam away, deep inside his head, to the safe, disconnected place Hell wouldn’t let him retreat to when Lucifer was laying him open again and again.

He hates that he has to fold himself down so tight it hurts just so Sam doesn’t flinch away instinctively when he stands too close, and that even the  _suggestion_ of his Grace scares Sam in some instinctive, primal way, so he can’t even snap up a bag of Skittles without Sam shaking. He hates that sometimes he slips when Sam’s taking him apart with his mouth and hands, and has to spend hours and hours stroking and soothing until Sam resurfaces from the catatonia.

There’s a creak of bedsprings from beyond the bathroom door and Gabriel realises, abruptly, that his Grace is making the air hum and if he doesn’t calm down, Sam’s going to have another episode. He takes another unnecessary breath, tucking it back down even though doing so feels like trying to contain a thunderstorm with fishing nets and sheer determination.

He drops the cloth in the tub and opens the door before hefting the tub into his arms and carrying it across the room. He has to walk carefully, deliberately, so that the water doesn’t slosh over the sides, and the acute awareness of his flesh is a strange feeling. Sam is watching him with an unnerved expression, and Gabriel is momentarily worried that he hasn’t dampened his Grace enough – but then Sam blinks and his face sags into lines of exhaustion instead.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, as Gabriel sets the tub down on the bedside table.

He reaches for the cloth, but Gabriel grabs his wrist and takes the cloth himself, wringing the water out before gently beginning to wipe the blood away. Sam’s arm settles, heavy, on his shoulder and Gabriel can feel his ribs expanding with each breath.

It’s a strange task – he hasn’t had to play nurse to anyone in… years. Decades. Centuries. He can’t actually remember the last time he’s been gentle this way, been careful, because any other time someone needed healing and he cared enough to provide it, all he had to do was snap his fingers. This is slower, and if the soft, awed way Sam is looking at him means anything, more meaningful.

“Dean-o and Cassie alright?” Gabriel asks, when the silence and the almost-reverence starts feeling like a weight in his stomach. “Or was it just you who got his ass kicked?”

“Dean, uh…” Sam hisses when Gabriel presses too hard, and Gabriel finds himself making apologetic sounds without thinking. “Got knocked in the head pretty hard, but Cas said he’d be fine.”

“If he’s survived this many blows to the head, one more can’t hurt,” Gabriel mutters, wetting the cloth again. “Is this gonna need stitches?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam replies, tilting his head down to peer at the wound. “It’s not that deep.”

His hair falls into his face and Gabriel smoothes it back absently with one hand. Sam startles, looking up in surprise, and Gabriel wonders about the tinge of disbelief he sees edging in at the corners of his expression.

“What?” he asks, drawing his hand back.

“I just wasn’t expecting–” Sam shakes his head, dislodging his hair again, and Gabriel irritably pushes it back behind his ear again. “You don’t like doing things the slow way, Gabriel.”

Gabriel narrows his eyes, frowning. “I can do things the slow way.”

“I know, but you don’t usually bother.”

“I’ve been doing things the slow way for months,” Gabriel says quietly, lifting his eyes to catch Sam’s gaze.

He doesn’t say ‘for you’, but Sam lets out a shaky breath and kisses him like an apology, so Gabriel figures he understands anyway. 


End file.
